


Feet of Steele

by ScotlandPrincess



Category: Remington Steele (TV)
Genre: Mystery, Other, caper story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:35:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScotlandPrincess/pseuds/ScotlandPrincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A caper story involving the whole crew:  Bernice, Murphy, Laura, and Steele.  Bernice and Murphy are such great characters, yet they're never given anything to do.  In this story, they have plenty to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feet of Steele

Disclaimer: I did not create these characters, and I am making no money off of this story. I would like to thank my trusty beta reader Eric, as well as the Rough Guide to LA and Dr. Joan Ullyot's book Women's Running, for their help in my attempt to capture both the city of Los Angeles and the state of women's athletics in the late seventies and early eighties. 

“If you want to get publicity for the agency, don't you think we should be looking for influential clients, Laura?”  
Laura Holt pulled out of her lunging stretch and swept her hand over her brow, pushing back her long brown hair into a ponytail and using her sweatband to secure it. She looked at her questioner, Murphy Michaels. Michaels, a tall, sandy haired man who looked as if he spent his weekends hiking and canoeing, was her team mate, coworker, and long time friend. “Come on, Murphy, these charity races are all the rage now. Having the Remington Steele Agency co-sponsor the Toluca Lake Cystic Fibrosis Foundation 3-miler is a great idea. By doing so, we position ourselves as an agency as involved in our community as we are in providing security and surveillance services to those who need them.  And we get to fund research that might help dying children live to be at least as old as us someday. Also,” she added with a mischievous wink, “I'd think you'd welcome the chance to outshine our dear Mr. Steele by running your famous seven minute mile.”  
Murphy cast a glance at the aforementioned Mr. Steele, who was standing by the registration table, resplendent in three a piece suit, carefully coiffed hair, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He was schmoozing and shaking hands and handing out bananas and salt tablets with an air of offhand grace that never failed to make Murphy want to throttle him. But, Murphy reassured himself. Steele did look completely unathletic, a pretty boy, certainly not someone who could run a seven minute mile. He smoothed out his crumpled racing bib and smiled to himself. His smile faded as he noticed Laura catch the eye of another overdressed, casually slick man in the crowd. Laura, seeing Murphy's fading smile and sensing she was being watched, turned around.  
“Oh, Max! Hello,” she said, waving Max Kowalcic, head of the young, upstart ad agency Images, over to where she and Murphy were standing. “Max, meet Murphy Michaels, one of my, I mean one of the Remington Steele Agency's, best operatives.”  
Murphy casually inclined his head and stuck out his hand, “Pleased to meet you.”  
“Max's company, Images, is, of course, a co-sponsor of the race with us,” explained Laura.  
Max nodded, “My former roommate’s daughter has CF. It's a horrible disease, and also quite expensive. I was hoping that this race would help the local chapter raise enough money to help expand support services, as well as research funds.”  
Both Murphy and Laura nodded in sympathy. “How awful,” Laura said, “I know we've been in several meetings for the race's Planning Committee, but I'd never heard the reason for your involvement. I hope this event raises the money they need.”  
Max nodded, “What about your agency, Miss Holt? What drew your agency to work with us on this event?”  
Laura paused a moment, “Well, we wanted to get away from posh dinners and people's horrible behavior to each other and... interact with the community in a more…positive way. I read about the event in the paper, and figured we were an agency in search of a worthy cause, and they were a worthy cause in search of an—”  
She was cut off by a man in a bullhorn, announcing that all race participants should move toward the starting line. There was a little confusion as to where the starting line actually was.  
“I've never been in a race where there wasn't,” Murphy muttered to Laura under his breath.  
“Me either,” she whispered back. But eventually, everyone got sorted out and waited patiently for the air horn. Out of the corner of her eye, Laura spotted Steele casually munching on a banana, as absorbed in the proceedings as if it was an event in one of his beloved old movies. She felt an unexpected burst of affection for him and, just as quickly as it had formed, she ruthlessly stamped it out. Not now, she thought, trying to summon up more aggressive emotions and frustrations, many of which were also produced by thinking of Steele, and channel them into the race, so they might safely burn out.

Bernice, at that very moment getting into to her car outside a Vons on San Vincente, and loaded with the extra fresh fruit and gallons of water Laura had sent her to get, was thinking of Steele for quite a different reason. She adjusted her rearview mirror, noticed smudged lipstick in the corner of her lip, and fetched a tissue from her purse to remedy the situation, and then turned her attention to the road, and to the employer who sent her on that errand. Lucky Laura, she thought to herself. Okay, unnecessary exercise is not my forte, but I'd gladly be back at the race, enjoying the attention of three attractive and well-to-do men, and what do I get instead? Bananas.  
Bernice stopped to let another driver into traffic and promptly got honked at by the driver in back of her. Suppressing the urge to flip him off, she soothed herself by diving back into her reverie. But then again, Laura can't appreciate her own good fortune sometimes. She's so strange; she has a real spontaneous, devil-may-care side. She even told me she did a fan-dance at a bar in Mexico once, but I just can't picture her doing that, it's as if her youth has been subsumed by the agency and, oh hell – the driver of the car in back of her tried to pass her on the double line, and she had to turn her attention to the road entirely to avoid a collision. 

Laura chugged up the road in the burning sun, wiping drips of sweat mixed with Bain de Soleil out of her eyes and keeping her focus on the task ahead. Murphy was about half a block ahead of her, going strong. She was proud of him, and she hoped that his obvious pride in his athleticism was a sign that he could become more secure and eventually overcome his childish jealousy of Steele so that they could all have a nice quiet office again.  
She felt someone brush her, a masculine voice announced, “On the left—!” without giving her quite enough time to move. They collided and fell to the ground. Laura felt hands pulling her off the road and onto a tree belt. “I'm okay,” she said, “let me brush myself off, but I need to get going.” Her fellow runners wouldn't let her get back into the race until she assured them she was fine and that although she had a couple of scrapes, there was no swelling and not even all that much pain.  
The man who ran into her was not nearly so gallant, “Women!” he snorted. “Ten years ago they would never thought of having women in this race, they're far too slow and don't have enough stamina. You shouldn't have been out here. I can't believe they even make running shoes for ladies now, just encourages them.”  
Laura saw red, then saw a montage of images from the downfall of the Laura Holt Agency. She felt angrier than she had in a long time, and knew she had to get back in the race or she was going to get arrested for punching this pig in the nose. She readjusted the laces on her Montreal '76 Nikes (it was so nice to be able to buy running shoes in women's sizes instead of having to stuff a pair of men's shoes as she did in high school) and stepped back into the stream of people. She saw Murphy in the far distance, and ran like hell to even catch up half way. She ran the race in twenty eight minutes, not her best time, but not her worst.  
She was still standing in the chute when Steele came up to her with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a bottle of water in another. “Your leg is bleeding,” he said, “I was under the impression you were running a race, not playing American football. What happened?” She made a “later” gesture as she gulped down the water and walked out of the chute.  
Max Kovalcic came running up behind them, Steele nodded at him, while Laura smiled and pointed to the water table, “Max, it's been a very dry day today. Make sure you have at least a couple of cups of water before doing anything else.”  
Max gasped and nodded, “Very impressive, Miss Holt.” He choked out.  
She nodded back, “Thank you, Max.” Steele shot Max a look, and Laura had to resist the temptation to kick him in the shin. “Er, Mr. Steele, let's go back to the chute, I'm sure it will thrill the incoming runners to receive a greeting from you as they finish their race.”  
Steele flashed an ironical little smile. “Quite, Miss Holt.” He wrapped an irritatingly possessive arm around her and lead her in the direction of the chute, “Let's not keep my public waiting.”  
“What was that about?” she murmured to him as they got further away from Max, “Have you ever noticed that you pull these little alpha male territory-marking stunts quite a bit? Has it ever crossed your mind that I might find it just a little bit irritating, maybe even a tad infantilizing?” Something in his face went slack; she felt his arm pulling away from her back. She felt a complicated wave of vindication and disappointment fall over her. “Thank you,” she spat out, “—er, hey, where's Murphy?”  
Steele started in surprise, “I saw him come into the chute a little before you did. He seemed triumphant, but I must admit I wasn't paying much attention to him beyond noticing that. You'd think he'd be around to crow about that whole seven-minute-mile business.”  
At that moment, Bernice appeared with the fruit, “hey, what did I miss?”  
Laura smiled, “Murphy crowing about his seven minute mile?”  
“That's not really what I was.... Wait, where's Murphy?”  
Steele looked over the rims of his glasses, “We were rather hoping you knew, Miss Wolf.”  
“Fox. No, I haven't seen him. I just got back from Von's. The fruit and gallons of water and cups are on the table, Laura. They're a whole bunch of athletic types over there and not a cute shirtless guy in the bunch. Not even Murphy.”  
Laura felt a little spike of worry, and then she saw the familiar sandy head walking towards her, chatting with a bubbly blonde in a light summer dress that Laura had known from.... somewhere.  
“Hey, Laura,” said Murphy, nodding curtly at Steele instead of verbalizing a greeting, “this is Miss Mortensen, a copywriter at Images, I'm sure you've seen her before. I think she had been at one of the planning meetings we were in. I came in at twenty minutes, thirty-six seconds and she was just standing there with a cup of water for me.”  
Her mind still on the race, Laura realized that she was covered in dried sweat and blood, her hair was everywhere, and she was wearing a pair of men's running shorts and an ancient t-shirt from a Bay to Breakers race she went to with an ex at least three years ago. She involuntarily shook herself, and all the self esteem she had obtained since junior high asserted itself, but it was a disconcerting moment.  
She turned her attention back to the conversation and nodded “Hello Miss Mortensen, I'm so glad you were able to come, you spent so much time with us in meetings that it's wonderful you've seen the outcome.”  
Miss Mortensen giggled a bit and nodded.  
Laura made another stab at conversation: “We were talking to Mr. Kowalcic earlier. Have you had a chance to see him yet? I know you were talking with him a lot during our planning committee meetings.”  
Miss Mortensen went as pale as her dress, but otherwise made no indication of her distress. “Oh,” she said, “that project's over. I don't really need to see M-Mr. Kowalcic much anymore.”  
Murphy, noticing Miss Mortensen's sudden lack of color, frowned in concern. “Hey Sally,” he said, “let's get something to eat. I think the heat's getting to you.” He headed toward the water and fruit, “I'm going to rehydrate, and then go shower. See you tomorrow, Laura.”  
Laura nodded, running her dry tongue over her drier lips, and then looked down at her blood streaked legs, “Well,” she said to herself, “that doesn't sound like such a bad idea.” 

Hours later, Laura was relaxing at home. When her phone rang, she was slumped in her favorite chair, cozy in bathrobe and slippers, halfway through deciding whether to continue to watch television or to practice some of Chopin's Etudes on her grandmother's piano. She suppressed a sigh of irritation as she picked up the phone. She wasn’t in the mood for Steele, whatever his name really was, chatting her up again.  
It was Murphy, his voice strained, “Laura, they found Sally…Miss Mortensen at home. She's been murdered. I was the last one seen talking to her, so they've been questioning me. I don't think anything will come of it, but I think you should get down here.”  
She found herself silently nodding at the phone. She cleared her throat and tried to speak, “Yes, yes of course. Ramparts station? I'll be right there.” She hung up the phone with a clunk, and ran to her bedroom to grab a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater. 

Laura ran into the station and saw Murphy sitting along the wall outside the homicide division. He was slumped over in an ugly orange molded fiberglass chair, looking gray and drawn under the ghastly florescent light of the hallway. With some relief, she noticed he wasn't handcuffed to the chair, although on second thought she wasn't sure why she thought he would be.  
He looked up at her, and the muscles of his face relaxed. “Laura,” he gasped, and then caught himself. “Um, is he here?” He cast a glance to the entrance.  
“No, of course not,” said Laura. “I heard what happened and left the house as fast as I could. This has nothing to do with publicity, so why should—”  
“Well, well,” they heard a familiar voice booming out behind them. “Now if I could just see Mr. Michaels, I'm sure I can clear this up very quickly indeed.”  
Laura rubbed her forehead, “How did he find out? I had the phone conversation and left the house. How—”  
Steele strode into her view, escorted by a constable. “Well Laura, Murphy,” Steele nodded to each of them in turn.  
“How did you get here?” growled Murphy.  
Steele hesitated a moment, and turned around, “That's odd. I would have expected he would have been here already.”  
“Who?” spat Laura, annoyed.  
“Your dear Mr. Kowalcic,” Steele answered, “He called me after he got the news about the unfortunate Miss Mortensen. I thought he was going to come down to the station, but I guess he has other engagements.”  
Murphy hauled himself out of his chair with a lunge, “We don't need you here, sir. Miss Holt knows what she is doing and has things completely under control.”  
Steele looked mildly rattled, but covered it quickly. “All right then. Of course, Miss Holt has the situation in her capable hands. I will be leaving you. But first, Miss Holt, I must tell you that should Mr. Michaels need bail money, you have my permission to use the company checkbook.”  
Laura replied with pasted on smile and honeyed tone, “Yes sir. But I'm sure they'll let Mr. Michaels go as soon as they've taken his statement.”  
Steele shook his head, “Well then, I'll be off.”  
Laura felt an odd sinking feeling in her chest, but she shook it off. She turned back to Murphy, “That wasn't quite fair of you, of us. He was probably just concerned for you, he seems to like you.”  
Murphy was in no mood for flattery, “Well, I don’t like him. And he wasn't concerned, he was just using the death of poor Sally to get in your --” he caught Laura's thunderous look just in time. “Look, we're both under a lot of pressure, on top of being exhausted and achy from the race. Why don't you pick us up some coffee? I'd get it myself, but I don't want them to think I'm fleeing.” Laura nodded in agreement. She needed a little space to herself right at the moment.  
She had gotten halfway down the hallway, when a young and energetic Asian woman, a sergeant from the look of her uniform, bounced up to her and handed her a message. “You're Laura Holt, from the Remington Steele agency? I was thinking about quitting the force and working for them, this place is awful for a woman, all 'play nice and don't expect to do anything interesting', and some of these guys act like I bombed Pearl Harbor. Ugh! Anyway, Mr. Steele left you a note.”  
Laura nodded, smiling in spite of herself, “Remington Steele is a very small agency, an unfortunately we can't take on any more staff right now. Try Havenhurst,” she advised, “Regarding women, they have joined the rest of us who live in the eighties, or at least, they have made it into the seventies. And they're too young to have been in World War II.”  
The sergeant nodded. “Thanks. I'd like to talk with you more, but I have some arrest reports to write up.” Laura smiled and said, “Don’t mention it.”  
She watched the policewoman fly down the hallway, and then looked at the paper in her hand.  
Laura,  
Please join me outside of Mann's National Theater after tomorrow's matinee. We need to have a serious talk about Mr. Kovalcic. I am not 'trying anything', but I do have some thoughts about this case.  
Please, 

 

R. Steele

Laura shook her head. She was familiar with Mann's National, a weird space age edifice near her alma mater. She hadn't had many classes near that section of the campus, but she had gone on a few dates there. She tried to picture the interior of the theater, and could only picture a fleeting impression of crystal chandeliers, a big picture window, and a profusion of variations on the color gold. There were some places to sit near the back of the theater where one could have quite a bit of privacy....  
She shook herself. She wasn't going to the movies with Steele.  
Tomorrow was Sunday. She had thought about trying to follow up a few leads, but her tired mind wouldn't produce any leads. She had a compulsion to meet up with Steele. She was curious. He had said, “Please.” It was the first time he had really made himself vulnerable. She found that touching.  
She stuck the paper in her pocket, realized she had to get coffee, and chided herself for taking so long. Murray would be worried. 

Laura stood in the lumpy, oblong shadow of Mann's National at 1pm. A red and black “Orson Welles Noir Festival” banner was draped over a good quarter of the enormous second floor window. It had been forever since she had last been to Westwood, and she had forgotten how much she loved it: the easygoing students, the academic buildings and hospital facilities intermingling with the shops, the delis, and the theaters. When she had been eighteen and touring the campus as a high school senior, it had singled adulthood and sophistication. Now, it was a happy reminder of the past. More comforting to her than going home would have been. In a blink, Steele was right beside her.  
“You showed up!” he said in a facetious tone that did not entirely hide his surprise. “I was curious,” she admitted with a burst of chagrin.  
“What is it that you need to tell me, that you must do it in this dramatic fashion?”  
He gently took her elbow and led her away from the theater. “I needed to refresh my memory, and I thought you might think it forward of me if I had invited you to the movie itself. I hope you will not think it forward now if I offer to buy you a cup of coffee?”  
Laura quipped, “Well, that would mean the agency was buying us a cup of coffee.” She gave him a sly glance, “I don't really want to discuss the case in the open air of a coffee shop. I have an idea.” She took off down the street, Steele following right behind, turned left at a parking garage and entered into Westwood Memorial Park.  
She turned around, “Marilyn Monroe, Josef Von Sternberg, and Daryl Zanuck are buried here. I thought you might appreciate being a tourist for a few moments.” He paused and quietly said, “You surprise me, sometimes, Miss Holt.”  
She shrugged, “you grow up in LA, you learn some things.”  
“It's too bad you don't mix business with pleasure.”  
“We've discussed this topic before. I like you very much, Mr. Steele. So much that I wouldn't want to have reason... not to like you, especially since you are the face of my much-fought-for business. It would be one thing if the only issue was sex – we'd just have sex, and have a good time, no strings attached, problem solved. We're both adults, and we're both capable of having that sort of relationship. But it's not that simple, is it? Let's not upset ourselves, let's look at Marilyn Monroe's crypt and then I want to hear your idea.”  
Steele looked as though he wanted to say something further, but he decided against it. “Indeed, Laura. Thank you.” 

Their pleasant mood was spoiled by Laura's beeper going off. She shrugged apologetically, and dug the thing out of her bag. “It's Bernice calling from home. That's odd, she never does that,” she said, looking at the message. “Hmmm. Looks like we'll have to see Von Sternberg and Zanuck's resting places later.” She noted Steele's look of disappointment, “Well, you're the one who wanted me to get a beeper. Serves you right. I think there's a pay phone on Wilshire.”  
Steele took her arm and they headed out of the cemetery, walking up the street towards Wilshire. Laura found a Pac-Bell phone almost immediately, and got Bernice on the first try.  
“Hello, Bernice, you paged me?”  
“Yeah, Laura. I just picked up the paper and saw what happened to Murphy. Look, is everything all right?”  
“Thanks for your concern. Yes, things are all right. No charges have been filed against him, there's no reason to think there will be. It was just pure bad luck Murphy was with Miss Mortensen right before she was killed.”  
“Or convenience,” muttered Mr. Steele.  
Laura made a shushing motion with her hand, exchanged a few more pleasantries with Bernice, got a computerized warning that her money was running out, and then hung up the phone.  
It was only after she hung up the phone that the full import of what Mr. Steele had said dawned on her. She turned to face Steele.  
“You think Mr. Kovalcic did what?”  
Steele sighed and forged on, “He might not have killed her, but I think something fishy is going on at Images. And whatever it was lead to her death.”  
Laura paused, “Seems obvious, but still. Why Max in particular?”  
“Sixth sense?”  
“Try again.”  
“Who was Miss Mortensen really? Who would she be to anyone who wants to kill her? Why would Kowalcic call me to tell me she was dead? We're going to have to infiltrate Images and find out.”  
“Way ahead of you, and is this really what all this cloak-and-dagger business is about? What’s with the notes and intermediaries?”  
Remington grabbed her elbow and began to lead her back to Mann's National. “You seem more ready to believe me when Murphy isn't lurking around.”  
“Murphy doesn't lurk. And you're saying nothing that we hadn't been thinking about. I do admit we can sometimes leave you out of things, but being a detective takes years of training, and sometimes I just worry that you might do something rash.”  
“I've curbed those tendencies lately. You have my word that I will continue to do so. However, I must express how much I like airing my theories with you; you're a good sounding board and teacher.”  
Laura felt herself blush. “Thank you. You have good instincts, you know. You can just empathize too much with the criminals we’re after. That worries me.”  
Remington raised an eyebrow.  
She stopped, and started violently, “How are we going to infiltrate Images? We've attended meetings with him. We've all spent time with him. He knows us all pretty well.”  
“Not all of us. Correct me if I'm wrong, but he's only dealt with Bernice over the phone. She could be a great 'mole'.”  
Laura nodded, “She's savvy, she can 'handle' men, she's good at flattery, she's very good looking, she's a little into fashion – once in a while I see her pull out a Vogue when things at the office are slow. Yes, we'll ask Bernice. Well done, Mr. Steele.”  
Mr. Steele smiled to himself, and then took Laura's arm. “We can call Bernice and Murphy and start work immediately. Your house or my apartment?”  
After a busy hour trying to locate Bernice and Murphy and bribe them to come into the office (Laura's idea – neutral territory) with an offer of overtime and takeout Chinese food, the entire staff of the Remington Steele Agency was gathered in Laura's office, bickering.  
“You can't send Bernice!” yelled Murphy, “she's a secretary.”  
“No disrespect, Murphy,” snapped Bernice, “but being a secretary is like a cross between being a foreign diplomat and an engineer! I keep the waiting clients occupied and happy when one of you gets sidetracked by the latest murderer they're trying to hunt down, or when Steele just has to bunk off work to go to the Silent Movie Theater. I keep those two–” she gestured at Steele and Laura “apart when they need to be kept apart.” Steele and Laura looked suitably chagrined. “put vegetable oil in the shredder when it needs it, change the toner on the Xerox machine, fix the Xerox machine when someone's broken it, as they do every five minutes, and usually ruining a skirt with toner and breaking three nails in the process. All this while typing ninety words a minute and teaching myself the Word Perfect program that Laura wanted because she hated the Wang word processor program!”  
“The Wang interface was awful!” Laura interjected, “You needed three discs just to – oh, Bernice, we're off the subject.”  
“Why does the shredder need vegetable oil?” asked Murphy in a calmer voice, intrigued by that little insight into his coworker's worker's workday.  
“As fascinating as this glimpse into the world of office work is,” interrupted Steele, “and it is fascinating to me as I am not used to hearing the particulars of an honest day's work, I think Bernice has proved her point and we need to start showing her what she needs to do to survive.”  
Bernice adjusted her big non-prescription glasses and smoothed down her hair, now sleek in a Louise Brooks bob. She took a deep breath and plunged in: “Hi, I'm Vivian Perske, I'm here from the agency? I type ninety words per minute. I know all the major computer programs, especially Word Perfect.”  
Max Kowalcic barely glanced at her. “Fine, fine. Annette will show you how to work the switchboard.” Annette, a tall, thin black woman in her mid thirties, was pretty in in a bookish-girl-who-grew-up-to-be-classy sort of way. Dressed in a well cut, unadorned suit very similar to the ones favored by Laura, and bucking the latest dictates of fashion by not wearing makeup and wearing her hair natural and cut rather close to the head, Annette reminded Bernice a little of a femme Grace Jones.  
“This switchboard is really annoying to work until you get the hang of it” said Annette, leading Bernice over to the reception desk and gesturing to the chair. “We usually don't get that many people calling in at once, but when they do it can get pretty hairy because of the number of lines you'll have to keep in motion. Even though that can get complicated, I usually put the caller on hold, go to a different line, page the person who's being called, and ask if they can take a call. Going to a different line to page the callee is very important. Otherwise, the system just forwards the call and if the callee doesn't want to talk it can get awkward. Isn't that a bad design?” Bernice rather thought it was, and nodded with conviction.  
Annette continued, “if someone calls up, and the person they are trying to reach is not available, take a message. You know the drill: date, time, initials, call back number. Do not forward them to anyone else, as client poaching can be a bit of an issue around here.” Bernice nodded.  
Annette's body language relaxed a little and she smiled, “you seem to be pretty quick on the uptake. I hope you like this job, I've just been promoted to Office Manager and doing both jobs is a little mind bending.” Bernice allowed herself a little laugh, but it seemed as if Annette wanted to tell her something. Bernice tried to project an air of empathy. Annette opened her mouth again, hesitated, and said “when do you want to take your lunch?”  
Bernice wished she smoked. She needed some way to vent her tension without blowing her cover, and the smoker's patio outside the building's cafeteria looked like a good place to pick up information. But it was no use, cigarettes gave her headaches. She leaned back in her desk chair and suppressed a frustrated sigh. Three days, a bajillion mind frying calls, Annette looking ever more worried but not yielding so much as a single gripe pass her lips. Today Laura, or rather, “Alice Moore” (Steele really enjoyed picking out pseudonyms), called in to check to see how she was doing. They covertly arranged a rendezvous at a local Ralphs after Bernice got off her shift.  
Suddenly, Bernice heard a door slamming behind her. It was Annette, emerging from her office. Her skin had a frightening undertone of gray and she looked as if she was about to cry. She hurried to the ladies room with as much dignity as she could muster. Bernice saw her opportunity. She waited a few minutes, and then followed her into the bathroom.  
“Guy trouble?” said Bernice, unconsciously assuming the manner she often used when Laura was upset. Annette snorted, blinking back tears. Then she started, as if she just realized where she was. She took another look at Bernice and visibly hardened. The white girl was not a friend, but a potential competitor. Bernice realized this with a shock, but figured it stood to reason. She suddenly felt the manic hunch that she should now blow her cover.  
“Look, I don't want your job. I have my own,” she broke into what Annette was about to say, “in a completely different office: the Remington Steele Agency.” Annette turned a shade grayer. She cleared her throat and tried to speak, but she stopped herself, at a loss for words.  
Bernice went on, “I can tell from your reaction that you've been caught up in something bigger than yourself, and that what has gone on is not your fault. You're probably looking for a new job as we speak, right?”  
Annette caught herself nodding, “I don't like this place. I've managed to get into a pretty good position, and I thought I was exceptionally lucky to be in a relatively... progressive environment here. But the way Max treated Sally.. and now with the ledgers... I don't like it. I've got a second interview for a much better paying job with an agency in Santa Monica. I think it's just to discuss salary, but --”  
Bernice interrupted, “Please, when you get a chance, please talk to my boss. She's a very nice woman and she's very experienced in matters where discretion is needed. We can arrange a meeting anywhere you'd like. Here's her card.”  
Annette glanced at the card, debating whether or not to take it. Finally, she grabbed it out of Bernice's hand and stalked out of the bathroom.  
Laura and Bernice walked into the coffee shop and took a fast look around. Neither of them spent much time Downtown, but it was fairly easy to find the small coffee shop in the Jewelery District. They caught sight of a tall black woman in a hot pink headscarf: Annette. She waved them over to her table, she had already ordered her cup of coffee.  
They got to the table and Bernice introduced Annette and Laura. They shook hands. They sat in awkward silence until a waiter came over and took their orders. As he walked away, Annette lowered her voice and said, “look, I got the other job – thank you Bernice, Laura” she said as they congratulated her. “Which makes you damn lucky, as I'd be much more reluctant to spill if I was going to stay at my current position. That sounds cold, but I think my life's in danger. Sally was Max's bit on the side for quite awhile. She was pretty smug about it, too. As if she was the only woman who'd ever had an affair with the boss. They'd leave the office separately, and would try to hide their affair in a semi-professional manner, but the dumbass had me schedule a few of his little out of town trips to Tahoe.” The waiter came up with Bernice and Laura's coffees and Annette broke off her story until he went away again.  
“Did you know 'secretary' originally meant a place in which to hide things? For an Office Manager-cum-Receptionist, that truth goes double. I'd patch through their calls, provide excuses for him when his wife called, but then I started seeing discrepancies in the balance sheets, and that had me worried. I'm not going to jail for a scumbag like Max. And he was ripping off a charity that helped terminally ill children!” Annette broke off and glared into the distance. Then she suppressed a shudder and looked sad.  
“Sally... I don't know how she fell out of favor, but I think it had something to do with the Steering Committee meetings and her growing involvement in the fund raising side of the event. Somehow, she realized that the balance sheets just didn't tally up. Maybe she noticed that the missing amounts matched the market rate for the little baubles lover boy left around. I just know that she became afraid of him... and then she got killed.”  
They sat in respectful silence for a moment. Then Laura got up and said, “thank you so much, Annette. What you had to tell us was very useful. I hope your new job goes well.”  
Annette smiled back, but said in a firm voice, “and now we don't know each other.”  
Laura nodded, her face cheerful but also a little hard, and said, “yes.”  
Laura and Bernice walked back to the Rabbit with a sense of purpose.  
“We have to break into the offices and get the files.”  
“Yes.”  
“If Steele and Murphy knew about it that would hamper us severely.”  
“Yes.”  
“Meet you at Images around one tomorrow morning?”  
“Yes.”  
Back in Century City, Steele felt something was amiss. Usually he was the one who snuck out at odd times of the day, not Laura, and it was unheard of for Miss Wolf to be anywhere but behind her desk. He felt anxiety for both of them, and it was a feeling he did not like at all. However, he thought, it could be worse. At least Miss Wolf might put a break on Laura's tendency to fling herself into danger. He thought about it some more, and couldn't think of an instance where Miss Wolf ever put a break on anything. In spite of himself, he felt a positive chill run up his spine, and went looking for Laura's beeper number.  
“Laura?”  
“Oh, it's you, Steele. What is it?”  
“Is everything all right?”  
“Oh, yes. I was just debriefing Bernice.”  
“You did that yesterday, at Ralphs.”  
“Bernice also worked today. She's very good at getting information.”  
“So are we any closer to catching the killer?”  
“Not really.”  
“Is there anything you're not telling me, Laura?”  
She made the slightest of hesitations. He could really read her like a book. Maybe she should at least call Murphy...  
Suddenly, she shook herself hard. Getting the records would be a fairly simple procedure. She'd done it tons of times at Havenhurst.  
“Not really, Steele.”  
He sighed, and wondered if he should just go over to Images – where she was doubtless going – or give her some space for once.  
“Laura?”  
“Yes?”  
“Be careful.”  
“Okay.”  
“One other thing?”

Laura quelled her impatience, “yes?”  
“Fancy a trip to the Silent Movie Theater on Thursday? They're having a Lon Cheney Film Festival. You'd really like The Unholy Three. MGM. 1925. Lon Cheney as the dashing ventriloquist jewel thief, Mae Busch as the woman for whom he wants to give up his life of crime.”  
Laura was touched, and obscurely guilty. She stomped on the feeling of guilt but said, “yes, Steele, that sounds fun. Maybe we could go to Canters afterward.”  
“Huh. I was thinking more this French bistro on the other side of Fairfax....”  
“Steele, I do have to get going, I keep pre-emptively feeding dimes into this phone, but I'm running out of change.”  
“Laura? I really mean it, be --”  
But she had hung up the phone. 

Bernice wiped her sweaty palm on the leg of her black pants. She breathed in through her nose and willed herself to calm down. Steele and Laura do stuff like this all the time, she thought, no big deal, really. She had only a few minutes to get into the foyer of Images and deactivate the alarm, thus freeing up the scene for Laura to come strolling in through the front door and help her rifle through the cabinets. As Bernice plucked her key to the front door of the office out of her pocket, she felt giddy. Every day now for three weeks, she had been repeating this little routine. Only today she was doing it several hours earlier than usual.  
Three am, to be precise.  
And, regardless of whether or not everything went well, this was the last time she'd be repeating such a now-familliar task.  
Without stopping to breathe, Bernice slid her key into the lock and got the door open. She slipped in through the foyer and punched her code into the alarm. She could barely hear the bleep-bleep-bloop of the keypad over the roar of her own blood.  
Psst! She heard a familiar voice hiss. She kept her voice low and responded, “Laura?”  
“Is it safe to come in?” Laura replied.  
Bernice nodded, and then, realizing Laura couldn't hear a nod, stuck her hand out and opened the door.  
Laura was dressed in the same loose, comfortable black clothing as Bernice. She flashed Bernice a nervous smile and scooted in the door. “Where does he keep the files?” asked Laura.  
“In his office, let me show you, replied Bernice.” They walked carefully down the hallway, bodies hugging the wall. When they came to Mr. Kowalcic's office, Laura produced a Master Charge card from her boot and proceeded to try and pick the lock.  
Bernice was disapointed, “I thought you were going to bring some lock picks or something.”  
Laura shrugged, “too bulky, and good luck explaining those to the cops if someone notices us in here.”  
“You mean we don't look suspicious as it is? The cops would buy the story that I just came back into the office because I forgot my hairdryer or something? And you came with me? At four o'clock in the morning?”  
“Black's a popular color to wear this- ooooh,” a bit of plastic broke off of Laura's charge card, but the door to the office swung free. “No time for joking, here we go.” They stepped into Mr. Kowalcic's office and began rifling through the cabinets. They had rummaged for about fifteen minutes before Bernice found a pair of ledgers.  
“Look!” she said, “this is how he must have cooked the books! She opened one of the ledgers to find that some of the pages had been ripped out. “Awwwww,” she caught herself groaning, before Laura hushed her.  
Laura took the ledger and held it up to the moonlight, “No, wait, it's all right! She beamed at Bernice. “Mr. Kowalcic has a heavy hand, his writing has left permanent grooves in the pages. With a little graphite dust, we'll be able to figure out what he said.” Bernice felt a weight she hadn't even known was on her shoulders lift off. “Oh, that's great. We can catch the murderer and the past two weeks of typing silly memos won't have been in vain!”  
“Well, said Laura, “let's be realistic. We can catch the embezzler. Murderer might be pushing it. There's still no evidence.” Laura went to shut the book, and something fell out of the pages. It was a picture of Miss. Mortensen, but the face of the photo had been defaced by cigarette burns so that only the body was visible and unmarked. They both suppressed shudders.  
“This is sick stuff,” said Bernice. Laura nodded  
They both heard the thump at the same time. There were men's footfalls downstairs and it sounded like they were slowly getting closer. Laura ran to the window, “oh, these awful modern buildings, sealed for air conditioning, where's a fire escape and a nice gigantic window when you need them?” The footfalls were definitely getting closer. Laura grabbed Bernice, “quick, hide behind the door. I'll wedge myself behind the file cabinets.”  
They waited for five minutes before the door to the room opened. Laura always hated that part of the criminal investigation game. She loved excitement and adrenaline rushes, but the sour stomach of possible discovery was one aspect of the life that she could never get used to. Bernice, for her part, realized a fundamental truth about terror: after awhile, it stopped being so acute. She began to feel her muscles relax a bit, she was conscious of a light, bubbly feeling. Much like the mild high one got from having a drink to calm one's nerves.  
The man came into the room – it was Mr. Kowalcic – and turned announced himself. “I know you're here, ladies. Come out now and I probably won't shoot you.” At the word shoot, Bernice found herself having an out-of-body experience. She felt herself fling herself out from behind the door, and before Laura could do a thing, try to tackle Mr. Kowalcic. He flung her off and then grabbed her, aiming a gun to her head.  
Laura started from her file cabinet hiding place, carefully and quickly concealing the ledger before she did so. “Wait, please don't hurt her. She's just a secretary. I have what you want.” While Laura had him momentarily distracted, Bernice wiggled herself around just enough to--”  
“Ahhhhhhh!”  
“BAM”  
Bernice shook her head to clear it from the unbelievably loud sound of the gunshot. She counted her blessings that she had attended those Take Back The Night self defense classes. She'd never thought she'd have to use them for more than fending off a date who had gotten a little inappropriately handsy, let alone kneeing a murderer in the groin, but they were obviously well worth the money.  
Laura scrambled for the gun and managed to wrench it out of Mr Kowalcic's hand while he gasped for air. She assumed a police firing stance and drew down on Mr. Kowalcic, “Don't move! I will use this if I have to.” She spared a glance at Bernice. “Bernice, call the police.”  
“I have never been as happy to obey an order in my life, Laura.”

Early the next morning, the staff of the Remington Steele Agency was sitting in Laura's office, drinking coffee and munching on bagels and lox. Remington got out of his chair and sauntered over to Laura, placing his hand on her shoulder.  
“Well, I wish I could have been there,” he cast a look at Laura, “but Laura and Bernice are obviously stunningly capable of fighting crime themselves. It's a wonder they keep chaps like us around. Eh Murphy?”  
Murphy shot him The Look. “Speak for yourself.” He said, tossing a bagel at Steele, who caught it with flick of his wrist. “Wonderful food, bagels,” Steele said, taking a bite out of one, “especially the ones with the onion bits.”  
Steele sauntered out of Laura's office, casually munching his bagel as he went while Murphy glowered and Laura and Bernice laughed. It was just the typical start to another typical day at the Remington Steele Agency.


End file.
